


I like it when you stay

by EtoileGarden



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Banter, Canon Divergent, First Kiss, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mild Angst, Underage Drinking, Vomiting, adam spiraling quickly, blood tw., first kiss does not happen while anyone is drunk, like a dead dove, teenagers are dumb and weird as hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-11-01 14:07:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17868704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EtoileGarden/pseuds/EtoileGarden
Summary: “I guess this is what Cabeswater was worried about, huh?” He says instead to Adam’s foot which is stinging something awful, “it likes you a fucking lot. When’re you getting hitched?”“What?” Adam says, because he’s not drunk but he’s definitely tipsy, and it takes a while for Ronan’s words to make sense. “It just wants me to be able to walk so I can look after it,” he says once he’s sorted out Ronan’s joke.





	I like it when you stay

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote the first five sentences of this a few months ago and the entire remainder this morning.

He’s well aware that he’s being an idiot. It’s just that. Well. He’s had a long day, a long, hard day. He’d been up since before the sun rose to finish an essay before his first shift at the factory, and then he’d gone straight from the factory to class and managed to forget his tie, and then he had fought with Gansey about something small and stupid and insignificant, and then he’d gone to Boyd’s and he’d walked in for his shift and his father had been in Boyd’s office. 

 

His father had no business being in Boyd’s office. He and Boyd weren’t mates, he didn’t come here for his repairs, he didn’t share a roof with Adam anymore. He was only there to throw Adam off, to taunt him with his presence. He didn’t even know what his father’s pretence for being there had been. He’d rolled himself under a car and not thought about it and not thought about it and avoided Boyd’s eye, and left later that evening without speaking a word to anyone. 

 

So. It’d been a long day. A long, hard day, and he’s pissed off and sore and  _ upset _ and the last words he’d spoken to anyone all day had been some angry words in response to Gansey, and-

 

He knows it’s a bad idea, none of these things - anger, resentment, self-disgust - go well with alcohol, but. He has this stupid urge to find out what it’s like to be full of frustration and booze. If it would send his fists flying like it did with his father, if it’d turn him reckless and rude like it did with Ronan, if it would make him sleepy and smiley like it did with Gansey. He wanted to find out alone, because if it did make him even more of an asshole than he already was, he didn’t want anyone else to have to find out with him. He wanted this to be for himself, though he wasn’t sure if it was a prize or a punishment. He’d figure that one out in the morning. 

  
  


A full month ago, Ronan had stashed an expensive bottle of rum in the top shelf of Adam’s ‘kitchen’ storage. He had said he was hiding it from Gansey, but Adam had had suspicions he was hiding it from himself. Either way, it was in Adam’s flat, and Ronan hadn’t said not to touch it, and anyway, Ronan could always get another bottle if he wanted. 

 

He’s glad it’s rum (glad as well (though maybe a little sickly so) that it was expensive), because his father never drunk rum. Something about the taste, something about the cost, something about the ‘too fucking pretentious - you ever try toasting a winning match with a pint of rum?’ 

 

The first mouthful is still scary. Which is stupid. His pastimes involved making deals with seemingly omnipotent magical forests, avoiding being murdered by Latin teachers, hanging out with an asshole, a dead boy, a previously dead boy, and a very grumpy non-psychic. This should be the least scary part of his life. 

 

He holds it, thick, and sweet, and heavy, and  _ burning _ , in his mouth for a long moment. Lets the thrill of anxiety and panic at the smell of it in his nostrils, the sting of it in his throat, fill him and then settle in his stomach. Tells himself there is nothing to be frightened of. Reminds himself that he is here, alone, in his flat, safe. Safe as life. 

 

He swallows the rum, and the knot of anxiety in his stomach is something hot instead. The heat of the alcohol. He doesn’t want to get drunk, he just wants to prove something to himself. He takes another mouthful, swallows this one easier. 

 

He’s glad this is a smooth drink, luxurious and velvety (although it’s difficult to stop his mind from trying to total up exactly how much his every mouthful costs), because it’s easier to pretend he isn’t doing this as a sick form of self-flagellation when it doesn’t taste and feel like gasoline like the cheap liquors his father drank (drinks), or the sour smell of beer being spat into his face when his father was sick and dizzy with drink and rage. 

 

Once he gets past the initial discomfort of what he’s doing - the knowledge that the alcohol doesn’t belong to him, the memories of everything alcohol has done to him (or his family has done to him in the guise of alcohol - once the rum has carefully placed those thoughts behind a curtain in his mind (a small box to unpack later), he feels. 

 

He feels good. At first. His limbs are warm and loose, his chest hot, his mouth sweet. He sits on his mattress, back against the wall, glass in his hand. He hadn’t wanted to look so wrecked - though it was only him - and so the bottle was back in the cupboard, put safely away. Each sip he takes he can almost feel travelling down his throat and into his stomach and spreading into his limbs and his blood and heating him and hollowing him. He thinks - vaguely - that he’s probably a light weight, though that may be due to the lack of food he’d had today, or the lack of sleep, or the percentage of the rum. He hadn’t looked. That felt like a stupid oversight. 

 

His hands are so warm by the time he’s half finished his rum. They’re usually not this warm unless he’s working in a recently turned off engine, or if he’s in the study room with Gansey because the home room teacher there liked to keep the heaters on throughout the year. It’s a nice feeling, like he’s full up from tip to toe with heat, like he’s sunk into a bath. But. 

 

It’s stupid. 

 

With his imaginings of the rum travelling though his body like a physical being - touching his insides and spreading through his cells - his skin became itchy and achy as if it resented not being touched as well. He ran his warm fingers over his goosebumped arms, trying to soothe his skin, but touching himself had never satisfied him for long in any way at all. He wanted to be touched, but, didn’t he always? Wasn’t he always freezing from the inside out because he felt like he was walking around in a forcefield that prevented people from touching him, knowing him? (Not that the forcefield had any power against anger turned against him). Wasn’t he always waiting and waiting for the moments in life where he could press his shoulders against Ronan’s - or Gansey’s - and act like it was only circumstance rather than need and careful planning? Wasn’t he always - 

 

He always wanted to be touched and touched and touched and now his skin prickled with the need like it was about to parch and burn and destroy itself without it. 

 

He wondered if this is what his father felt when he drunk. The need to touch transposed into fists against skin. He didn’t think so, but, how was he supposed to know? He couldn’t get into Robert’s head - he didn’t want to. 

 

His glass was empty, which wasn’t ideal, and was also a surprise. He had thought he was focusing on on lonely his skin felt, not on drinking, but, he had always been very good at multitasking. 

 

It isn’t late, and when he stands up - slowly - he’s no hugely unsteady, so. He may as well have another glass, right? He was testing this out. You couldn’t get any good results if you didn’t take the experiment far enough. Anyway, isn’t this what people born into the dust like him did when they felt like grinding their bones back into the ground? Drink themself there? It was really a form of town pride. Henrietta spirit. 

 

He pours himself another glass. Puts the rum bottle on the (tiny) bench, steps away back towards the bed. That’s when it happens. 

 

There are footsteps on his staircase. He freezes. He had heard (or read?) that when you drink your brain works slower, thoughts sluggish, but, now they seemed to spiral and shift in his head faster than ever before. 

 

It was his father on the staircase. His father who had turned up to Boyd’s for no reason today. Who had left without saying a word to Adam but after making sure Adam knew he was there. His father who obviously wanted something. Money? Revenge? An apology? To make Adam fully deaf, finish the job? To mute him as well? To blind him? 

 

He’s still frozen in the middle of the room, rum glass sticky and sweaty in his hand, heart hurting his chest with each beat it made. His skin was still itchy and painful, but now less with the need to be touched, instead with the knowledge that it would be hurt. It was unfair that his skin already hurt in its anticipation of the blows that would come. 

 

Why tonight. The footsteps stop outside his door, pause. Adam doesn’t think he’s breathing. Is his father going to know? Is he going to knock or is he going to knock the door down, or does he somehow have a key and he’s going to let himself in? Or did Adam forget to lock the door and he’d just open it and come in and find Adam here stuck to the floor with fear and rum and ache and memories and - - and of course that would be what Robert would expect, wouldn’t it? Maybe minus the rum. 

 

The knock at the door is loud, and even though Adam had been hyper aware of the probability of it coming, it scares him badly and the sweaty glass slips through his fingers and crashes into the floor by his feet. 

 

He only owns one glass. He owns one glass, a mug that says ‘no. 1 grandpa’ that had been a gift from Ronan, and three plastic cups. He had chosen the glass to drink out of because it was expensive rum and he couldn’t bring himself to drink it out of a mug or plastic. 

 

Now his one glass is smashed at his feet, shards and splinters of it glistening in the spilled rum spilled over his bare feet. 

 

-

 

“Parrish?” Ronan calls through the door, “What the fuck, man?” 

 

For a long (or brief) moment, Adam is relieved, relieved enough that his body goes from the stiff, tensed muscles lock it had been in and his shoulders slump, and his lungs release air, and his heart pumps alcohol around his muscles. 

 

Then he’s angry. Angry at himself mostly, for being so terrified, for not thinking of Ronan, for smashing his only glass, for wasting rum, for not considering that Ronan might come to visit and discover Adam drinking his rum. He couldn’t even pretend not to be home now, because Ronan had heard the smash… though maybe if he stayed very still and quiet - 

 

“Parrish!” Ronan repeats, thumping on the door, “Either you’ve fainted and smashed your head on the lamp, or there’s a very stupid and unlucky burglar dropping your shit, and I’m going to smash this door down to find out if you don’t  _ say _ something!” 

 

“Shit,” Adam says, which he hopes will at the very least forestall the door smashing. “Go away, Lynch.” 

 

There’s a pause, in which Ronan does not go away, and then he says; “You good? Or are you just listening to avante garde garbage sound music?” 

 

Now that Adam’s brain has had the chance to go through an alcohol fueled anxiety panic, it had decided to go into hibernation, having used up all its thoughts and speed for the day. He’s struggling to think of what to even say. Hasn’t said anything when Ronan speaks again. 

 

“Dude,” Ronan says, thumping on the door again - as if he’s leaned his whole body weight against it - “Look. I’m not here to shit on your music tastes, that’s just a fucking bonus. I was just trying to fucking sleep - for once - and Cabeswater was all up my ass about something that needed fixing.” 

 

Adam hasn’t heard anything from Cabeswater. He has a very disgruntled though that possibly the thing Cabeswater thinks needs fixing is him. He doesn’t like this thought at all. He’s only tipsy, not even drunk, and it’s not like he plans on doing this again. Not like he has enough money to fuel a drinking habit. There’s nothing here that needs fixing. 

 

“God, shit, Parrish,” Ronan growls through the door, “have you forgotten how to fucking speak? Just let me in, will you?” 

 

If Ronan comes in, maybe he can accidentally brush his skin against his. If Ronan comes in he’ll see the smashed glass and the spilled rum and he’ll smell it on Adam and he’ll see the bottle on the counter. 

 

“No,” Adam says, voice a little unsteady. He wishes he hadn’t dropped the rum. 

 

“The fuck?” Ronan snaps, “Why the hell not?” 

 

Why not? The rum bottle was why not. If he puts the bottle away he could let Ronan in and Ronan could shove his shoulder like he did and Adam’s skin might stop itching. 

 

“Parrish,” Ronan says, and Adam moves towards the counter to put the rum away. 

 

It turns out that he is stupid. Stupid when he’s drinking. How had he already forgotten about the smashed glass around his feet? He steps straight onto a shard and it slices easily into the sole of his foot. 

 

He was very good at staying quiet. He was. He had grown up keeping his tears silent, his fears silent, his elation, his pain, his dreams silent. So. He was silent now as he felt the glass cut deep, but. It was such a shocking pain, so sudden and sharp and gross, and he was literally unsure he could keep quiet about it for much longer in his current circumstance. Especially not if he moved at all. 

 

Fuck. 

 

“Parrish,” Ronan says again, louder. 

 

“Fuck,” Adam says, louder than Ronan, “shit. Just. I know you have a goddamned key, Lynch. Use it.” 

 

There’s no response from the other side of the door, and then there’s a fumbling and the sounds of a key in the lock, and then Ronan steps inside. 

 

“What the fuck?” Ronan says, which is probably the most valid greeting at the moment. 

 

“You startled me and I dropped my glass,” Adam says, because that’s truthful and gets to the main point here, “and I cut my foot on it.” 

 

Apparently something about the way he says this, or the way he looks, or something, tips Ronan off. 

 

“You’re drunk,” Ronan says, face screwed up in an odd expression, “what the  _ fuck _ , Parrish?” 

 

“Tipsy,” Adam corrects, because that’s an important distinction to make here. “Grab my shoe?” He asks, “I don’t wanna cut m’other foot hopping t’the loo.” 

 

Ronan looks at him as if he’s insane. Maybe he is. It’s hard to tell through the fuzz of the alcohol and pain. He steps across the room towards him, glass crunching under his boots, and then just motherfucking picks Adam up. Normally, Adam would protest. He wasn’t a child. He was capable of walking. Ronan could have at least asked, the fuck? But. This is a lot more incidental touch than he’d been hoping for, and also he hadn’t been looking forward to hopping while tipsy, and also Ronan smelled nice(ish), and - 

 

Ronan puts him down on the toilet after kicking the lid down, and then drops down to his knees in front of Adam. He thinks he’s had a dream like this. Or a late night fantasy. Something. Ronan doesn’t follow the dream script. Instead, he picks up Adam’s bloody foot and lifts it up to look at, throwing Adam off balance. He has to grab for the sink and Ronan’s shoulder to stay seated on the toilet. 

 

“Stop,” he grumbles.

 

“I’m gonna fucking get the glass out of your foot before you bleed to death or some shit,” Ronan growls back, not looking up from Adam’s foot, “Is this the entire cup in your foot?” 

 

“Maybe,” Adam says petulantly, digs his fingers into Ronan’s shoulder because it feels nice and Ronan’s muscles twitches underneath his touch. “I can deal with my foot.” 

 

“You smell like a liquor store,” Ronan says, prods at Adam’s foot. Adam attempts to tug his leg away while biting down on an embarrassingly childish pained noise, but Ronan holds on. “You’re not in any state to deal with this. You can’t even stay upright.” 

 

Maybe so. 

 

“I don’t wanna be dealing with your rank ass foot,” Ronan says archly, shifting his grip on Adam’s foot to his ankle instead, to tip the foot this way and that to get a better look, “but if I don’t you’d probably go all old fashioned and amputate the whole thing.” 

 

“Don’t be a shit,” Adam mumbles, and, oh, yeah. He hears it now. He’s definitely slurring a little. He had originally thought it was just his accent bleeding everywhere, but no. 

 

Ronan opens the cupboard under the sink, vice like grip still on Adam’s ankle, and rummages around. It’s a good thing the bathroom is small enough to reach everything from anywhere. 

 

“You got tweezers?” Ronan asks. He’s already pulled out plaster and antiseptic and tissues.

 

Adam shakes his head. 

 

“Right,” Ronan says, prods at the glass in Adam’s foot, “does that hurt?” 

 

Adam barely refrains from kicking Ronan in the face. He doesn’t refrain from the strangled noise that escapes his mouth. 

 

“Ok,” Ronan says, squints at his foot more, “ok. I  _ think _ it’s all in one piece in your foot. So. I can probably pull it all out in one go.” 

 

“Ok,” Adam says, thought actually he wants to yell no and pull his foot away. He can live with it in his foot. He could adapt. 

 

“I’m just going to feel it out first, ok?” Ronan says, voice soft as his fingers painfully probe at the glass, “and I’ll count down from three before I do it, ok?” 

 

“Ok,” Adam says, then, “Aghh! You fuck!” As Ronan simply yanks the glass out immediately after getting a good grip on the glass, “Oh,  _ god _ , you shit head.” 

 

“Uh-huh,” Ronan says. He’s dropped the glass to the ground so he can press a handful of tissues to the hole in Adam’s foot. His other hand is still tight around Adam’s ankle, which is good because otherwise Adam might have kneed himself in the face with how hard he’d tried to pull his foot back. “Stay still.” 

 

“God,” Adam says again, exhales heavily to let the pain and adrenaline wash over him before it can leave him, “a little warning would have been nice.” 

 

“It’s over now,” Ronan says simply, “and you didn’t even have to build yourself up with sick anticipation. I did you a favour.” 

 

“Sure,” Adam groans, but, the initial pain is already ebbing, replaced with the ache of a deep cut, and the sharper pain of tissue against the outside wound. “I can do the rest.” He feels a lot more sober now - a gift from the pain maybe. “You can leave.” 

 

“Sure,” Ronan repeats, doesn’t let go of Adam, “tell me how much of my rum you drank?” 

 

Adam had forgotten for the extent of the bathroom trip that it had been Ronan’s rum he was tipsy on. 

 

“Uh,” he says. 

 

Ronan pulls the tissue away, tsks at the immediate rush of blood, but then puts antiseptic on a clean tissue and presses it back up against Adam’s foot. Painful. 

 

“I don’t care, man,” Ronan grunts, “Payment for letting me keep it at yours, I guess.” 

 

“I can do this,” Adam tries to say again, but Ronan just shakes his head.

 

“I guess this is what Cabeswater was worried about, huh?” He says instead to Adam’s foot which is stinging something awful, “it likes you a fucking lot. When’re you getting hitched?” 

 

“What?” Adam says, because he’s not drunk but he’s definitely tipsy, and it takes a while for Ronan’s words to make sense. “It just wants me to be able to walk so I can look after it,” he says once he’s sorted out Ronan’s joke. 

 

“Don’t be stupid,” Ronan says. He’s dabbing at Adam’s foot now. “I spend like half my nights in it. I know it loves you.” 

 

Adam knew he loved Cabeswater (loves), hadn’t bothered considering whether or not it could love him back in any meaningful way. He isn’t sure how to respond. 

 

“So,” Ronan says, “when’re you getting hitched?” 

 

“Shaddup,” Adam says, goes to shove Ronan’s shoulder, and then remembers he’s been holding onto it this whole time, so he just squeezes it. 

 

“You’d have cute kids,” Ronan says, not put off. “They’d have your curls and its’ roots.” 

 

Adam snorts. 

 

“Like,” Ronan continues, “just imagine a whole horde of little baby Parrish-Waters. All weird and wacky, living off only air and water, and, I guess they’d have some of the forest’s attributes too.” 

 

“Asshole,” Adam giggles while Ronan sniggers. 

 

“‘M not havin’ any kids,” Adam says after a few long moments in which Ronan has smeared mre antiseptic on his foot and has started to stick a huge plaster onto it.

 

“Oh?” Ronan says, he sounds maybe overly uninterested. 

 

“Can you imagine?” Adam snorts, throat still in the mood for laughing even if his mind isn’t. “I’m not giftin’ my childhood to any other kid.” 

 

“Don’t be a dumbass,” Ronan says, patting down the sticky part of the bandage on Adam’s foot, “you don’t have to have fucking kids, Parrish, but if you did, you wouldn’t be like your fucking asshole dad.” 

 

“Sure,” Adam says. Ronan’s finally released his foot, and Adam rests it gingerly on the floor - the side of it against the linoleum as to keep the bandage and sore part from being pressed. His ankle felt like it might be a little bruised. 

 

“Parrish,” Ronan grits out, “listen. I don’t give a fuck whether or not you want kids, but I give a fuck that you think you’re even a little bit like your dad.” 

 

“Ok,” Adam grumbles. He wants to get up and go clean up the glass and rum mess in the next room. “Whatever.” 

 

“You’re such an idiot,” Ronan complains, shoving the supplies back into the cupboard with one hand, and gathering the rubbish up with the other. “Can you walk?” 

 

“Uh-huh.” 

 

“Can you let go of my shoulder?” 

 

“Oh.” He lets go of Ronan’s shoulder, rebalances himself on the sink. 

 

Ronan stands up in front of him, leaves the bathroom - ostensibly to go get rid of the rubbish. Adam takes this time to attempt standing up. He shouldn’t have worried. He stands up easily, legs feeling rubbery and tingly. The problem is found within being properly upright. His head swims and his eyes water, and even though he’s keeping his weight on the sink and his left foot, his cut hurts abominably, and his stomach - now it’s gotten over the initial sharp pain and thrill of alcohol - is beginning to hurt and grumble, and. He ought to have eaten before he drank.

 

-

 

Falling to his knees is already a long way down with no preparation, but it feels a lot longer while tipsy, and it almost throws him completely off track. He manages to get the toilet lid up before he vomits. He’s not sure how long he vomits before Ronan arrives back in the bathroom. He’s not even sure how long he’s been vomiting while Ronan holds the longer parts of his hair up out of his face. It’s stupid how much he vomits. All he has in his stomach his rum, really. The last thing he ate was half a sandwich at lunch time, and that was already about eleven hours ago. 

 

“Wow,” Ronan says sarcastically while Adam takes a moment to rest his face against the toilet seat, “you’re having a really shitty day, huh?” 

 

Adam considers replying, but then just vomits a little more. Not really vomit now, just dry heaves because he’s already spat at all the rum and all his stomach acid and a ridiculous amount of saliva. 

 

Ronan waits until he finishes heaving, and then brushes Adam’s hair back one more time and releases him. 

 

“You done?” 

 

Adam shrugs. 

 

“I think you’re done.” 

 

Adam shrugs again. 

 

“Go to bed, dumbass,” Ronan says, flushing the toilet while Adam’s still leaning against the rim. 

 

Adam swears, but only half heartedly, then whole heartedly when Ronan lifts him by the armpits into a vaguely upright position. 

 

“On second thought,” Ronan says, “you should wash your face and brush your teeth first.” 

 

“God,” Adam pleads. 

 

-

 

It takes a while, not too long thankfully, but Adam gets vaguely cleaned up, brushed up, and out of his t-shirt and jeans without ripping his plaster off. Admittedly he had just lain down on his mattress after undoing his jeans, and Ronan had crouched at the end of the bed and pulled them off for him, but. He was in bed with a bottle of water and his blanket over him and his stomach feeling ok now it had evacuated everything that had ever been in it, and he was tired enough not to care that Ronan was cleaning up the glass and alcohol. In fact, he almost forgets he’s not alone until Ronan comes back to kneel by his bed. 

 

“Don’t sleep yet,” Ronan says, voice harsh. With effort, Adam pulls his eyes open and squints up at Ronan. “You’ve not drunk your water,” Ronan points out, “you need to rehydrate. And you should probably eat something.” 

 

“Can’t,” Adam grumbles. Closes his eyes again. Ronan shoves his shoulder. 

 

“Water,” he says, “painkillers, bread. Else I’ll start blasting Murder squash.” 

 

“You’re a shit head,” Adam informs him, but opens his eyes and sits up kind of vaguely upright. 

 

Ronan shoves the water at him first, and Adam drinks a little, and then Ronan takes the water away and replaces it with bread and watches him with Chainsaw like intensity as Adam nibbles on it and swallows a few half mouthfuls. It takes a while for him to swallow the painkillers - he’d always had a problem with that, which wasn’t useful growing up - and Ronan makes him drink a bit more water before he gets to lie back down again. 

 

Now that he’s been forced awake, he doesn’t feel quite so much like he’s about to fall into the abyss of sleep anymore, which is annoying, because he quite wanted to. Now he’s just very aware of his residual tipsiness, and the pain of his foot, and the rawness of his throat, and the closeness of Ronan. His skin is still itchy. 

 

“Why’d you do it?” Ronan asks after a few moments in which Adam had lain there regretting things, and Ronan had sat next to him looking vaguely awkward and looming in the dim light. 

 

“What?” Adam grumbled, “Stab m’self in the foot? Fun, I guess.” 

 

“Shithead,” Ronan says, pushes himself up off of the floor and walks over to the kitchen assigned area to refill the water bottle and dispose of the rest of the nibbled bread. 

 

He doesn’t speak again until he’s returned to Adam’s side with the bottle and after having turned off the lights. Adam expects his next words to be; ‘goodnight’. 

 

“I know why I drink,” Ronan says, “but I thought you thought my reasons for drinking were stupid.” 

 

“They are stupid,” Adam says, “doesn’t mean I don’t understand.” 

 

“Is this a thing you do?” Ronan asks, and it must be the dark unlocking something, because he doesn’t sound sarcastic, or irritated, just… worried, maybe. 

 

“Drink until I vomit?” Adam asks, as wryly as he can through a slur. “This was my first time.” 

 

“Drinking or until you vomit?” Ronan asks. 

 

“Both,” Adam admits. He tips his head sideways so he can look in the general direction of Ronan. It’s dark here in his tiny flat with the lights off, and Ronan is nothing more than a darker patch in the shadow of his room. “Why do you care?” 

 

“I don’t,” Ronan says. 

 

Adam sighs, heavy in the silence that settles in between them, and closes his eyes, trying to chase the allure of sleep again. Ronan’s hand brushes at his curls, as if he’s flicking a fly off, and then brush again, and then settles on his head. 

 

“What are you doing?” Adam asks, keeps his eyes shut. 

 

“Why do you care?” Ronan throws back, though it’s stupider in this context. 

 

Adam considers. “I don’t,” he says, then, “are you staying tonight?” 

 

“Are you kicking me out?” 

 

“Will Cabeswater be grumpy if I do?” Adam asks. Ronan’s thumb is moving against his temple, an unsteady tic. 

 

“Maybe,” Ronan says, “I would be, though. After cleaning up after you.” 

 

“I’m not kicking you out,” Adam says. 

 

“Kind of you.” 

 

“Get in the bed, then,” Adam adds, “and if you’re going to treat me like a cat by stroking my hair, do it nicely at least.” 

 

Ronan snorts and pulls his hand away - Adam regrets his words - but then he’s shoving Adam further over on the mattress and tugging himself under the blankets and lying on his side with one arm up so that he can resume the stroking of Adam’s hair. 

 

“Better, O vomity one?” Ronan asks. 

 

Adam would like to respond with something cutting or unaffected, but the truth of the matter is that Ronan’s palm is warm against his face, and his fingers are gentle in his hair, and his skin is less itchy for touch than it’s been for weeks and weeks, and - 

 

“Yes,” he says, “better.” 

 

They’re silent then, maybe because they both understand that this is a fragile moment. Something that only exists in the dark between them because they can’t even address it straight on with words. Ronan continuing to stroke Adam’s hair, Adam pressing his head against the touch and relishing the warmth that was Ronan’s body next to his. The alcohol still in Adam’s blood had other, fun, ideas though. 

 

“You like touching shit,” Adam says, “you’re always fiddling with stuff. Your wrist bands, pens, my hair -” 

 

“You could just say stop,” Ronan grunts, pulling his hand away from Adam’s head. 

 

Adam, with no regard for his usual sensibilities, lets out a noise of loud disapproval. 

 

“Don’t stop,” he says, and there’s a pause, then Ronan puts his hand back down, flicks at Adam’s nose, and then resumes the stroking. “I was sayin’,” Adam continues, “you like touching shit -” 

 

“Yeah I got that, Parrish,” Ronan grinds out. 

 

“And,” Adam continues loudly, “I like bein’ touched.” 

 

Ronan’s quiet. 

 

“So,” Adam says, feeling far more pleased with himself than this simple math really warrants, “you should just touch me all the time.” 

 

“You’re still so drunk,” Ronan says. 

 

“Only a little,” Adam says. “I know you want to.” 

 

“What?” Ronan says, his hand stilling again. 

 

“Touch me,” Adam says, a request and an answer, “I see you watching me all the time.” 

 

This time when Ronan pulls his hand away, Adam doesn’t chase it because some of his words are finally starting to circle back around into his head and he’s hearing what he’s been saying. 

 

“Don’t be a dick,” Ronan says. 

 

Adam isn’t sure how not to be a dick. He wishes Ronan would keep stroking his head. If he’d kept his mouth shut he could be asleep by now. 

 

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it,” Adam says. 

 

“I don’t care,” Ronan grunts, he’s starting to slide out of the bed, “I either want you to  _ like  _ it, or not notice it, or at least have the decency to not mention it.” 

 

“I do like it,” Adam says, “I would have told you otherwise.” 

 

Ronan pauses in getting out of bed. He lies back down on his side, propped up on his elbow. He’s still a dark shadow, but Adam can all but see the glare on his face. 

 

“You’re drunk,” Ronan says again. 

 

“I am,” Adam admits, because that’s probably the easiest thing to say. “I’m drunk and I’m telling the truth.” 

 

“Truth telling while drunk means shit all,” Ronan says, “if you aren’t saying it sober I don’t want it.” 

 

Adam could probably argue about this, but he’s sleepy now. He’s sleepy and he wants to close his eyes and press his body up against Ronan’s for the heat and the solidity and the comfort of touch, and he wants. 

 

“So stay,” he says, “and wait until I’m sober.” 

 

Ronan snorts. 

 

“Seriously,” Adam says, “I’m cold. Stay.” 

 

“Shithead,” Ronan says, but presses forwards a little more and puts his head down. “Don’t puke on me.” 

 

“I’ll consider it.”

 

-

 

In another life, maybe Adam Parrish would wake up and Ronan would be gone, and they’d never talk about it. Or maybe he would wake up and Ronan would be there but Adam wouldn’t remember anything. Or maybe they would both be there with their memories, but they just wouldn’t say shit about it because the light was streaming in and drying up the words. 

 

In this life, Adam Parrish wakes up with a fucking pig of a headache and to his belly rumbling, and to Ronan squishing him up against the wall, and his memory fully intact. 

 

“Get the fuck off, Lynch,” he grumbles, pushing half heartedly at Ronan until Ronan groans and rolls over, and then he gets up, is relieved to find that the headache is the only symptom of the hangover (so far), and goes to the bathroom to piss, hobbling a little to favour his foot. 

 

When he comes out of the bathroom, Ronan is still there on the bed, eyeing him up warily, waiting, and Adam sighs. 

 

“I like it,” Adam says, “I like it when you watch me. I like it when you touch me. I like it when you stay.” 

 

“Gay,” Ronan rasps. 

 

“Drink some water,” Adam instructs, then, “we don’t have to do anything about it.” 

 

Ronan drinks some water. “How do you mean?” he asks. 

 

“I mean,” Adam says, leaning against the edge of the kitchen counter and lifting his foot up to inspect Ronan’s handiwork, “I may have said I liked it first while I was drunk, but you never said it at all. If you’re not ready to say it, we can pretend I didn’t say it for you.” 

 

Ronan looks almost like he’s considering this. 

 

“I wanted to wait,” Ronan says, “until I felt... Stable in it. Until I felt like I knew for sure you wanted me too.” 

 

“We can wait,” Adam offers. 

 

“You don’t want me?” Ronan asks, his voice betraying all of the hurt the question holds. 

 

“I do,” Adam shakes his head, “but I’m not a very stable person.” 

 

Ronan doesn’t reply at first, just kicks the blanket down to the foot of the bed and gets up. Drinks more water, goes to piss, comes back out and straight up to Adam where he’s leaning over his desk looking at his schedule. No work until two, thankfully. He waits until Adam turns, and then he presses forwards until they’re flush together. Rests his head against Adam’s. 

 

“Is it just because you want to be touched?” Ronan asks, “Or because you want to be touched by me?” 

 

It was a valid question. Adam did want to be touched in a very general way. But. 

 

“By you,” he says, “which is dumb really, because you’re always super grubby and getting into weird shit and by all means, I shouldn’t want your hands on me at all -” 

 

Ronan kisses him. Nothing fancy, or even sexy, just a quick clumsy meeting of lips. “You’re a shit,” he informs Adam, “I was the one cleaning you up yesterday.” 

 

“You’re the one who spent all last weekend searching through trash cans on the street because you betted Noah you could find a whole sandwich thrown away within two days. 

 

“I did, though,” Ronan points out. 

 

“My point still stands,” Adam snorts, “seeing as you were elbow deep in rubbish.” 

 

“Whatever,” Ronan says, then, “listen. Are we doing this?” 

 

“I mean,” Adam shrugs, it seemed a weird question to ask with Ronan so close and warm and comfortable around him, “yeah. I want to.” 

 

“Ok,” Ronan says easily, “good.” 

 

He hopes that next time, because there will always be a next time. Next time he’s so tired and frustrated and self-hating, next time Ronan will be there before the rum. Next time he can forgo the blood and tears and vomit thing. Next time maybe he’ll skip the self-destroying habits and just go straight to the hug. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> my tumblr is now etoilegarden!


End file.
